


Carry On My Wayward John

by SHERlocksFriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:04:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHERlocksFriend/pseuds/SHERlocksFriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by "Creepy Doll"=Johnathon Coulton</p><p>John is being hunted.</p><p>This may look like a song. It is not. Do not sing it. I do not want to hear you sing.<br/>(This took so long to format. *exasperated face*)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry On My Wayward John

Sherlock was gone.  
John was moving out.  
There was no point in staying.  
He watched the papers for openings in other places.

He could not stay.

Mrs. Hudson hated to see him go.  
She knew how much John was suffering.  
But she wanted someone to care for.  
Baker Street felt empty without John.  
London felt empty without John.

The cab was silent as it pulled into the sloped driveway.  
The small house John had found was just outside of London.  
It had been abandoned for a few years.  
John didn't care.

Darkness creeps over the house on the hill.  
A steaming cup of tea and a book are the only things that accompany John Watson.  
A small fire casts an orange glow over the room.  
Gentle silence wafts about the lounging figure.

John turns the page of his novel and stops.  
A thump echos through the house.  
The book is put down.  
The chair is empty.  
The stairs creek as the weight of the army doctor graces them.

The electricity on the second floor does not work.  
John grips a flashlight in one hand, a gun in the other.  
He rests his hand on the unstable banister as he creeps to the only door on the second floor.  
The doorknob is rusty and takes a decent amount of effort to turn.  
Creeks whine past John and seem to run away like ghost hounds.

The beam of the flashlight slices through the thick, black darkness.  
A worn wooden floor peaks out as the light washes over it searching for the source of the sound.  
A small rustling reaches John's ears.  
Fear wells up inside of him.  
The light waves around as if trying to escape.  
It stops.

Something is laying in the middle of the room.  
It looks strangely familiar.  
It does not move.  
It is not alive.  
It never was.

John takes a few steps toward the object and laughs.  
It is only a doll.  
A porcelain doll.  
Wearing a long, dark coat.  
And a deep blue scarf.  
And has black, curling hair.

John can not breathe.  
This doll looks exactly like his former friend.  
Sherlock Holmes.  
Complete with cheekbones and the determined frown on his face.

It looks just like Sherlock.  
Except for the eyes.  
Two big, black buttons are harshly sewn into the face of the doll.

What the hell is this?

John runs back down the stairs and stumbles into his bedroom.  
He slams the door and locks it.

Squinting his eyes shut he tries to calm himself down.  
It was only a dream.  
A delusion.  
He had only fallen asleep in his chair.  
In a minute he would wake up in that chair and get ready for bed. 

A minute passes.  
Then twenty.  
Nothing.

Leaning against the bedroom door John falls into a restless sleep.

An irritating beeping rustles John from his slumber.  
His phone had been ringing and he had a large number of messages from Mary.  
He checks his watch and tries blinking the sleep out of his eyes.  
Fully awakened by the fact that he was late for work, John dashes out the door.

After a few appointments John has a small break.  
He washes he hands in the bathroom and goes to eat lunch in the break room.  
John began heating up his tea and unpacking his sandwich.  
He took two bites of his sandwich before the microwave beeped.  
He opens the door and realizes that he had forgotten to put water in his cup.

Embarrassed by this, John fills his cup and puts it back in the microwave.

It beeps.  
The cup is empty.

He fills it again and watches it as it slowly spins around in the heat.

It beeps.  
The cup is empty.

John decides he does not want tea anymore anyway.  
He purchases a bottle of water from a vending machine near the back exit.

He sits and enjoys his sandwich once again.  
His hand reaches out to the bottle of water and finds itself grabbing at nothing.  
The water had tipped over at some point in time.  
John looks around.

No one is there.

He stands up to clean up his mess.  
The paper towel dispenser is empty.  
There are no rolls in the cupboards.  
He ventures to the utility closet.

The click of the switch bounces around the spacious room.  
John walks past a shelf of cleaning supplies.  
The paper towels are sitting quietly, waiting for him.  
He picks up a pack of them and screams.

Sitting on the shelf is the dark-coated, deep-blue-scarved, cheekboned doll.  
It is looking at him.  
Staring at him.

John panics.  
He dashes out of the room and into the hall.  
Mary is there.

"Are you alright? I heard screa-"

John shoves her out of the way.  
The back exit door is opened.

He is in the sunlight.  
A crack trips him and he is laying on the ground.  
The hard ground.  
The real ground.

It was a delusion.  
He was sleeping somewhere.  
Maybe.

Or he was loosing his mind.

Mary is above him.

"John? Are you okay?"

He sits up.

"D-did you see it?"

"See what?"

"The doll. The doll on the shelf. He was staring at me. Right into my soul. He was looking in my soul."

"John, maybe you should go home."

She kisses him on the forehead and pats his shoulder.  
She stands up and walks back to the building.  
Leaving John alone.

He flags down a cab and tosses his bag into the trunk.  
The cab takes him home.

He opens the trunk and pulls out his bag.  
It is there.  
The doll.  
Staring at him.  
Into his soul.

The bag falls to the ground as John runs to his house leaving the cabbie confused.

The doors are locked.  
The windows are bolted.  
The cracks are sealed.

John is alone.

He tries to distract himself by reading.  
He looses himself in his book.

It is dark.  
John is hungry.  
He has forgotten about the doll.

He shuffles into the kitchen.  
His hand is on the handle of the refrigerator.  
He remembers the doll.

He is afraid.

The door is gently eased open.  
The light flicks on.

No doll.

John sighs in relief.  
He finds the fixings for another sandwich and turns around.

It is there.  
Sitting on the table.  
Its button eyes blank.  
Boring into his mind.

Pain shrieks through John's body.  
Splitting nerves.  
Cracking bones.  
Tearing skin.  
Melting from the inside out.

A massive squealing drills into his skull and blinds his brain from thought.

John's screams were snuffed by suffocation.  
He collapses into a chair and crashes to the floor.

The pain is gone.

The world is silent.

John lies on the floor trying to piece together what had just happened.  
Ghosts of the extreme pain still lingered.  
John examines his body.  
There are no wounds.

Surprise and confusion embed John’s features.

He pulls his mobile phone out of his pocket and phones the only person who would listen to him.  
Sherlock Holmes.  
He dials.  
It rings.  
And rings.  
And rings.

“You have reached Sherlock Holmes. The only Consulting Detective in the world. Leave your name, phone number, and reason for calling and I will see if it is worth looking int- What.”

John hears his own voice in the background.

“Don’t say that. That’s rude.”

“I can say whatever I want.”

“No. Say something nice for once in your life.”

Stomping could be heard.

Sherlock scoffed.

“Leave your name, phone number, and reason for calling and I will see if it is worth looking into.”

BEEP

“Sherlock. Help me. I think I’m going to die. Something is trying to kill me.”

It did not help.  
The doll is still there.  
Staring.  
Digging.  
Torturing.

After another few days John stops going to work.  
Mary calls often.  
John ignores the messages.  
He ignores the phone entirely.

He had not told anyone where he had moved to.  
He had not told anyone he had even moved.

John is alone.  
With the doll.

His sessions with the psychiatrist stop.  
She phones him as well.

He throws his phone at the wall.

His chair is his only friend.  
He curls up in it and waits.

He  
He waits  
He waits for  
He waits for the  
He waits for the doll  
He waits for the doll to  
He waits for the doll to steal  
He waits for the doll to steal his  
He waits for the doll to steal his soul.

There is a knock on the door.

John does not move.

There is another knock on the door.

John does not move.

The knocks continue.

The voice of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade penetrates the thick wooden door.

“John. I know you’re in there. I had to do a ton of research to find you. Mary told me you were… not well.”

John looks over his shoulder to the door.  
Lestrade knocks again.

“I will kick down this door.”

He jiggles the doorknob.

John rolls off of his chair and thuds on the ground.  
He shuffles to the door.  
All the locks are undone.  
He opens the door a crack.  
Greg peaks at him.

“You look awful.”

John nods and opens the door the rest of the way.  
Lestrade shoves a bag into his arms.

“Eat this.”

John opens the bag.  
The strange, wonderful aroma of fast food wafts in John’s face.  
Greg pulls him back to his chair and sits in one facing John’s.  
John unwraps one of the burgers and takes a bite.

The warmth fills his mouth.  
He realizes he has not eaten for days.  
He greedily shoves in the rest and reaches for another.

“Not so fast. You’ll choke yourself.”

He grabs it anyway.  
John finishes the three burgers and looks for more.  
He finds a small bag of French fries.

“No. Those are for me.”

He chuckles.

“You ate my sandwich.”

John looks into his face.  
He has almost forgotten how to socialize.  
He opens his mouth to speak.  
His voice is scratchy.

“Can you help me?”

Lestrade looks confused.

“Sure. What is it?”

He tells Greg exactly what he told Sherlock.

“I think I’m going to die. Something is trying to kill me.”

Gregory looks around the empty house.

“Wait. You said something. What is trying to kill you?”

John leans forward and whispers

“The doll. I asked Sherlock for help but he hasn't gotten back to me. ”

Lestrade looks worried now.

“John. Sherlock is dead. He jumped off the hospital. Remember? You were there. You watched him fall.”

He glances at the door.  
John sees this and panics.

“No Don’t leave I’ll be alone It will get me It will eat my soul It will eat out my insides.”

He has tears in his eyes.  
Lestrade stands up and pulls out his mobile phone.

“Don’t worry. I will find help.”

He walks to the door and dials a phone number.

“NO. NO. NO. You can’t leave me here! It will torture me!”

Greg opens the door and steps out.  
John shrieks and jumps out of his chair.  
Lestrade sees him just in time to run down the front steps to avoid collision.  
John lands on the cracked landing at the top of the stairs.

“I will send help.”

Lestrade calls over his shoulder as he jogs to his car.

“Stay here. Lock the doors. You know, that stuff.”

He pulls his car door shut and peals out of the long driveway.  
John tries to run after him.  
He gives up.  
The house beckons him back in.  
To its safe foundation.  
Of locks and doors and latches.  
And the doll.

He sneaks back through the door and seals it with his locks.  
He turns around.

Nothing.

The doll is not there.

He sits back in his chair.

John is thirsty.  
He shuffles into the kitchen.  
Fills a kettle and places it on the stove.

He stares at it until it is boiling and pours it into a mug.  
He turns to a cupboard to find the fixings for tea.

He sees it.  
Out of the corner of his eye.

It is glaring at him.  
Daring him to look.

He keeps it within his sight and reaches to turn on the oven.  
He is going to bake the shit out of that doll.

He edges sideways toward the rigid face of his friend.  
His dead friend.

It has disguised itself as someone he admired.  
Someone he cared about.  
To manipulate him.  
To soften him.

So it could kill him slowly.

That was the reason he had waited so long.  
It felt as if Sherlock really was there.  
It felt as if Sherlock was alive.  
Not dead.

Alive.

The oven dings.  
It is ready.

He jumps on the doll.  
He wrestles with it.  
It feels as though it is trying to escape.

He grabs it and runs to the oven.  
With a struggled toss the doll lands on the shelf.  
John flings the oven door shut and sits on the ground.

He watches as the curling black hair catches fire and  
Slowly  
Begins to burn.

John falls into a much needed slumber.

Two hours go by.  
The doll continues to turn to ash.  
Smoke starts to seep out of the cracks.

Three hours.  
The doll is gone.  
The house is filling with thick black smoke.

Four hours.  
Fire licks out of the oven.  
A towel catches fire.

Four hours and thirty minutes.  
John’s pant leg catches fire.  
He continues to sleep.

Four hours and forty five minutes.  
John jumps out of his sleep to his clothes being on fire.  
He hops about trying to put it out.  
He stops.  
He looks around.

His whole damn house is on fire.

Five hours  
No phone.  
No help.

John‘s senses are gone.  
He cannot see.  
Or smell.  
Or think.  
He slides out of reality.

His house burns.

John is gone.


End file.
